


35 in a 30

by andthebluestblue



Category: Original Work
Genre: But also, Cop Fetish, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, Gags, Handcuffs, Name-Calling, Original Male Character - Freeform, Other, Police, Safewords, Sex on a Car, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, cop kink, dubcon, original character of nonstandard gender, problematic everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24155923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue
Summary: “Now. I’m going to turn you back around, and then I’m going to search you. If I don’t find anything I like, we’re done here, and you can go on your merry way. If I do—well. That’ll depend on whether I think you’ve learned your lesson. We clear?”
Relationships: OC/OC, OC/OMC
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	35 in a 30

**Author's Note:**

> You ever have one of those months where the entire world shuts down because of a pandemic but you're a stay-at-home parent so it seems like it shouldn't really make a difference, but it absolutely does, and you're like, fuck it, I'm gonna write some really self-indulgent cop kink porn even though I'm really upset about the state of law enforcement in my country so it's an AU where the cops aren't like, appallingly racist and it's actually even remotely unexpected one of them would abuse their power? 
> 
> Well, I haven't, because I'm pretty sure I wrote this before this all started. But here it is anyway! Feel free to control-F and replace "Elliot" and "Rathbone" with your personal favorite trans male character/ambiguously gendered butch pairing, this could apply to basically anything.

The officer shone a flashlight directly into Elliot’s eyes, and he winced backward from the light. 

“Want to tell me how fast you were going there, sir?” He’d assumed the cop was a man, but the voice—though low—made him revise that.

“Thirty-five,” he said, trying not to sound sullen. 

“And do you happen to know the speed limit on this road?”

Elliot clenched his jaw. “Thirty. You really pulled me over for going five miles over?”

The officer gave him a disapproving look. “The law is the law, sir. License and registration?”

He handed them over without saying anything.

She studied his license for longer than he’d expected, and he felt his palms start to sweat. Finally:

“Can you tell me your height, son?”

He frowned. “I’m five foot six.”

“Address?”

“54 Cross Street.”

She made a _hm_ noise. “Eye color?”

“Brown. Is there some sort of problem, officer?”

She sighed. “Well, at least you did your homework. Get out of the car, please.”

Elliot didn’t move. “What?”

Her eyes were sharp. “I said get out of the car. Nice and slow. Leave the keys in the ignition.”

More than his palms were sweating now, but he obeyed. “I don’t know what you think—”

“I think I’m no fool,” she cut him off, voice cool. “And that this obviously isn’t your real ID. Next time, try using a birth date that’s at least plausible.”

“But that _is_ my birthday,” he insisted. “Look, it’s—”

“I don’t need to hear any more,” she said sharply. “Hands against the hood of the car. Let’s see what else you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Elliot said, aggrieved. “It’s not a damn crime to look _young_.”

“One more word and I’ll assume you’re resisting arrest, and have no choice but to treat you as hostile.”

Elliot stared at her. “You’re _arresting_ me?”

“Right,” the officer snapped, “Hands behind your back. Please be aware that I am armed and authorized to use force to subdue you if necessary.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” argued Elliot, not moving, but at her narrowed gaze he swiftly tucked his hands behind his back. “You can’t be serious.”

He heard a metallic jingle and then the _snick_ of handcuffs closing around his wrists. Did cops even use handcuffs anymore? This was bullshit.

“This is bullshit,” he said aloud. “You’re arresting me for going five miles over.”

“No,” she corrected, hands checking the fit of the handcuffs in a brisk, practiced way. “I’m subduing you while investigating evidence of further wrongdoing. Now get down on the ground.”

He twisted around to stare at her. She looked up into his eyes—he wasn’t tall but still had almost six inches on her. “The _ground_?”

“While I search your vehicle,” she said, and when he continued staring at her, made a disgusted noise and knocked his feet out from under him.

She caught him before he landed and laid him down on the ground. Twisting his head let him look up at her, but it wasn’t comfortable.

“If you move, I will take further action to subdue you. I recommend against that.”

She took her time searching his car, from what he could see, as the damp ground seeped into his clothes and his shoulders started to ache. He considered trying to at least turn over so he could sit up, but—

He heard the slam of his car trunk and then felt more than saw her come closer. When he craned to look up at her, she had her arms folded across her broad chest and was staring down at him, face unreadable.

“All right,” she said, “Car’s clean. Up against the hood, boy, you’re next.” 

Elliot tried not to think about what _you’re next_ might entail, or about the switch from _sir_ to _boy._ Neither boded well. Instead he pointed out, “I’m cuffed, I can’t get up.”

“‘I can’t get up, _sir,_ ” she corrected. “And I’m sure you can work it out, a clever thing like you.”

He saw her lean back against his car, arms still folded. “Clock’s ticking,” she added. 

He grimaced, face turned away from her view, and performed an awkward motion with his hips and knees that ended with him balanced awkwardly on a shoulder and his knees, then slung his body up so he was kneeling. The officer made another _hm_ noise, but when he looked at her, her face was still blank. He could see, now that she wasn’t holding a flashlight, her nametag. _Rathbone_. At least now he had something to call her, since he damn well wasn’t calling her _sir_.

He managed to stand, awkwardly, shoulders feeling wrenched after what he’d put them through, and made his way to the car. 

“Made heavy work of it,” remarked Rathbone. “But here you are.” She gripped him by the upper arm and his opposite shoulder and, before he could react, had spun him around and pushed him up against the driver’s side of the car. He started to turn back around automatically, and she shoved his shoulder into the car.

“Stay put, boy,” she warned, “or I’ll see to it that you do.”

“Officer Rathbone,” Elliot tried again, “I really think—”

She turned him this time, fast and hard enough that his back slammed against the car. Her arm was across his chest and she was in his face, eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall asking what you _thought_ , boy, and I know damn well I told you what to call me,” she said, and she was close enough he could feel the heat of her body, all of it, not just the arm that was pressing him into the car. Elliot swallowed and hoped that it was dark enough to hide his sudden flush. Her eyes flicked over his face, and he remembered it had been light enough to read her name. _Damn_.

“Now. I’m going to turn you back around, and then I’m going to search you. If I don’t find anything I like, we’re done here, and you can go on your merry way. If I do—well. That’ll depend on whether I think you’ve learned your lesson. We clear?”

Elliot’s mouth was dry. “Yes.”

She glared, and he hurriedly corrected, “Yes, sir.” What did it matter to him if some cop wanted to feel like a big man? It’s not like he had drugs. She’d search him and they’d be done here.

“Good.” She turned him around, not so harshly this time, and pushed him up against the window while she felt along his arms and sides with the same brisk efficiency he’d felt from TSA agents. She ran hands over his back the same way, then turned him around and did the same to his chest, seeming not to notice as he flinched at her hands.

“There we go,” she said approvingly. “Not so bad, was it? All right, over the hood now and I’ll check the rest of you.”

He froze. “The rest of me?”

Her voice was patient, bordering on condescending. “Your _legs_ , sweetheart. You’d be surprised what I’ve found strapped up there.”

His legs. Right. That was fine. Elliot walked unsteadily over to the hood and leaned against it, trying not to push back as she—not unkindly—gripped the back of his neck and bent him over the hood of the car. He felt horribly vulnerable like that, especially after she used her heavy boot to knock his legs further apart, and he tried not to shiver. Tried to ignore the predictable effect the handling was having on him, and he cursed—again—his wiring. This was a disaster. This was a violation of his civil rights, probably. 

This was _not_ the time to be moving from half-hard to full blown erection.

Her hands were brisk and impersonal as they moved over each of his calves, and that helped, but as she stood and ran her hands up the outside and back of each of his thighs he could feel the heat of her body behind him. Finally he felt her hand on the inside of his thigh, just above the knee, and he tried very hard not to move as she slowly moved it up. He couldn’t tell if it was just his imagination or if she really was being more thorough about this. Maybe she really had found a lot of things on inner thighs. Maybe she was just a bastard.

She was _definitely_ being more thorough, thumb pressing firmly against his leg, and he had just opened his mouth to say something—though he had no idea what—when she very definitely stopped touching his thigh.

“Well,” she said, voice low and close to his ear, “what do we have here, boy?” She twisted her wrist so that her palm rested against him. Against his cunt.

Elliot closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool metal. Of _course_ she would find out. _Legs_. Bullshit.

“Nothing,” he said curtly. “So you didn’t find anything, and we can go. That’s what you said.”

He felt her answering chuckle in his chest. “I said if I didn’t find anything I _liked_.” She pressed in behind him, and he felt his cock twitch as she shifted her hand. Elliot tried very hard to remember that _she_ wouldn’t be able to feel it, and even harder not to buck into her palm as he felt her breath on the back of his neck.

“Now, the way I see it, boy,” she drawled, “this can go two ways.” With her other hand, she yanked the handcuffs up so his arms were twisted and immobilized, just this side of too painful. “First way’s the easy one. You trot along to whatever shithole you call home and spend the rest of your life jerking yourself sore thinking about this night.” She pushed her palm against him. “Because we both know you _will_ be thinking about it.” Elliot bit back his gasp, but he knew she felt his shudder by her low, pleased noise. 

After a moment, he asked, wary, “What’s the second option?” 

He felt the huff of her laugh hot on his neck. “The second option is that I bend you over this car and fuck you right here, like the slut you are.”

Elliot—just barely—caught his knees before they buckled at the casual contempt and threat and _sex_ in her voice, but he knew she’d felt him jerk against her hand by the way she shifted her fingers, her pleased hum. “That’s what I thought,” Rathbone said. “Well? Go on. Choose, boy.”

He tried, and failed, to work moisture into his mouth. When he didn’t answer, she gave his arms a little shake. “I don’t have all night.”

Elliot closed his eyes and managed to rasp, “Yes.”

“To which?” There was no kindness in her voice.

“The—the second. Please.”

Her laugh was crueler than her voice. “Good boy. Knew it as soon as I saw you.”

She didn’t uncuff him or even unbelt his pants before she yanked them down, leaving him exposed to the warm air. To anyone driving by. To her.

He could hear her moving behind him, but the only way to see was if he twisted his neck so his chin was almost on his shoulder, and it felt like that would cramp after only a moment. So he had no warning of the flat of her hand across his ass, just the sudden sharp crack and sting of it that made him yelp and jerk away.

“Now, boy,” said Rathbone, almost a drawl. “You can squirm as much as you want. Go ahead and yell, there’s no one for at least a mile. I know you want to act like you don’t want it, and I don’t mind a bit of fight. ‘Specially not from a pretty thing like you.” She traced her fingernails over the imprint on his cheek, sharp little trickles of pain sparking. “But you want me to stop—actually stop—you just go ahead and say my name. You remember what that is?”

Elliot’s cock _ached_. “Rathbone.” 

“Good boy. I don’t want to hear that again unless you mean it.” He was half-expecting it this time, so when the blow came, mirroring the first, he managed to bite back his shout. He was less successful after the fifth, and Rathbone’s laugh came again.

“What, that hurt? I thought you’d be able to take some rough handling, seeing as you’re such a needy little slut.” Her voice was mocking and self-satisfied, and Elliot did not have an answer. All he could do was whine, and twist his hips, hoping desperately that was answer enough. Hoping she would not hit him again. Hoping she would.

But she didn’t, instead tracing a finger down the crease of him until it rested, very lightly, on his cunt, and he was abruptly aware of how wet he was. His thighs were soaked, and he knew Rathbone had noticed.

“I can smell you, boy,” and it was a threat, somehow, and he felt himself clench on nothing, pulsing against the feather-light touch of her finger on him. She laughed again and traced that light touch over the slick folds of him until he was almost shaking, trying to push back against it.

That earned him another smack, another laugh. “Gagging for it, aren’t you? Well, we’ll see. Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I won’t fuck you after all, just leave you here half-naked and helpless. I’m sure someone else would come along eventually.” She closed a hand over his stinging ass and squeezed. “Who knows, they might even let you go.”

He made a noise at that, desperate, and she hummed a thoughtful, pleased note as she reached down and pressed fingers against his pulsing cock. “There’s a good boy—god, you’re soaked. Guess it would be a shame to waste it when I’ve got you worked up so easy. You always this quick? Probably got hard soon as you saw the lights, hoping some big brute would pin you down and stuff you full.” Elliot could barely hear her above the blood pounding in his ears. She dug her fingers into his ass. “Well? I want an answer, boy.”

It took him two tries to get the word out. “What?”

She huffed a laugh. “Good thing you’re pretty. I _asked_ if you were always this quick. This desperate.” 

“No,” the word came quickly, though it felt thick in his mouth. “No, I’m not—I don’t—”

“Oh, so you’re just this hard for me, then?” She cut him off, voice smooth. “I’d be flattered if I believed you. But we both know you’re just a slut.”

Rathbone rested a heavy hand against the back of his neck, pressing his face against the cool metal of the car’s hood. He felt her hand working at the fabric bunched around his knees. “Now, I’m going to fuck you, boy. You haven’t earned it, god knows, but I want to feel you coming around my fingers. And since you obviously don’t have anything useful to contribute here, I’m going to make sure I don’t have to listen to your mouth.” A sharp jerk at his knees, and then he felt her press a handful of jagged metal into his palm. He closed around it automatically. “Those’re my keys. You start feeling like you can’t take it, or like you can’t breathe, you just go ahead and drop those and I’ll clean you up and send you on your way.” She slapped his ass to punctuate it. “What you do after that is your problem, not mine. Got it?”

He nodded, and got another smack, directly over the site of the last one. He yelped. “Say, ‘Yes, officer,’ if you understand, boy. I don’t want to hear anything else out of you.”

He swallowed. “Yes, officer.”

“Good boy.” The hand didn’t leave his neck, but he felt her weight press against him as she reached up and shoved a wad of fabric into his mouth. He swallowed again and, at the taste, realized what it was. Realized what she had torn off with that sharp jerk. He made a noise, but the cloth muffled it.

“You just work out what those are?” she asked, amused. “You think I just carry around gags in case I run into a piece like you? Ha. But don’t worry, I’m always ready to improvise.” The hand left his neck and he heard the rustling of fabric, the familiar jingle of a loosening belt buckle. “Fr’example. I was all ready to fuck you, but on second thought, I think it’s time you learn a lesson about _respect_ first. And I don’t think fucking you is going to teach you anything. So instead, I’m going to stripe this pretty ass of yours, make sure you don’t mouth off to anyone for at least a day or two.” He felt the cool leather of a belt against his ass. “And you’re going to lie there and take it, or else we’ll see if I can whip that shirt right off your back. You got tits under there, boy?” He felt himself flush, but she didn’t wait for a response before she first laid the belt across his ass. 

It _hurt_ , sharper and bloodier than the feel of her hand, hot enough that he thought for a moment he was bleeding. But then the second one came, driving the thought—any thought—out of his head, and he tried to gasp, choked on the taste of himself, pulled a shuddering breath through his nose, and the third blow drove that out of him as well. He lost track, after that, trying to twist away, stay still, arch toward it, away. She stopped, after a few minutes or an hour, and he collapsed against the hood of the car. His face was wet, he realized, and after a moment, realized from the gasping breaths he was taking that he’d been crying. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t know if Rathbone had.

“Fuck, boy,” and at least her voice was no longer light, amused. It had a rasping note to it now, a touch of breathlessness. “That’s a _good_ boy. Look at you. That’s gonna bruise.” Her hand was still harsh on him as she dragged over the inflamed skin. “Can’t believe I’m not going to get to see it color up.” There was an odd note in her voice, almost like regret. He barely noticed, twitching weakly under her hand. 

Her grip on him shifted until her thumb was just brushing his entrance, and he tried to gasp, couldn’t. “Thought you couldn’t get any wetter,” she said, amusement back but voice still not smooth, “but should have known a slut like you would prove me wrong. I was going to give you a proper beating, you know, but you looked so pretty squirming and making those desperate little noises that I couldn’t resist. Had to fuck you.” That’s all the warning he got before she shoved into him. He cried out, arched, saw stars, and she laughed. 

“Fuck. Look at you take it. You ever been fisted, boy? I’m betting not, tight thing like you.” He didn’t have a response, just noise, but she didn’t seem to need one. Her hand was back on his neck, steady and grounding as she pushed into him, out, fingers rough and thick and like a hot drink on a cold day. He could feel them in his spine, his throat. It was a steady rhythm, but he was so worked up that it couldn’t be more than a few minutes before he was clenching on her fingers, trying to push back against them harder, trying to beg through the gag. She just kept up the terrible, smooth rhythm, but he could hear her harsh breathing, and then she stopped, shoved her fingers in and _curled_ them, growled, “Go on, boy, come for me,” and he did, curling and jerking against the hood, her fingers still in him as he pulsed and clenched and soaked her hand, world a white roar around him with nothing but her voice in it.

When he finished, she said, conversationally, “Fuck,” and then she jerked her fingers out and he was tumbling backward. It took him a moment, still bleary, to understand what had happened: She was kneeling on the ground and he was sprawled against her, half propped up. She yanked the gag out of his mouth and he had a moment to take a gasping breath of the strangely cool night air before she shoved her wet fingers into his mouth, demanding, “Suck.” He did and she shoved them deeper, and he tried not to gag on them, spreading his legs and arching weakly automatically. “Already?” Rathbone said, and under the sneering amusement there was a note like wonder, and then her other hand was on his cock. It was his mouth she fucked this time, strong fingers dragging over his tongue and pushing messily against his teeth while her other hand worked his cock in quick, jerking motions. 

It took longer than the first time. It took no time at all.

He was in a daze, after, but he remembered her hands unlocking the cuffs, strangely gentle, and his pants being pulled back up and refastened—not entirely comfortable, without underwear. He blinked, and he was in the passenger seat of his own car, feeling the road move; another blink and Rathbone was saying patiently, “I’ll open it, but you’re the one with the keys.” 

He woke up the next morning in his own bed. For a moment he remembered the strange dream he’d had last night, and then he moved, and it was immediately apparent it had not been a dream. _Ouch_. 

There was a note on his kitchen counter. _I’m up for another round if you are, boy._ There was a phone number underneath. 

Elliot took a breath. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it. 

He dialed.


End file.
